Death in Uptown

by Michael Raleigh

  “He had your card on his body,” Bauman said, leaning forward. He straightened for a moment, then leaned back. He was sweating visibly and Whelan decided he was a drinker.

  He held the detective’s stare for a moment and nodded. “Do people that see you every day have your business card? We hadn’t seen each other in a while and I gave him one of my cards.”

  “For what purpose?” Bauman asked.

  “Wasn’t any particular purpose. I just had new ones made up.” He grabbed the little plastic wallet the printer had supplied and shoved it across the desk. “Help yourself.”

  Bauman held his gaze. “No, thanks. I don’t get much call for private detectives.” Bauman tilted his head to one side and squinted. “Now why would he have your card on his body? Was this a business meeting or something?”

  “I guess. He was writing a book down here.”

  “What type of book, sir?” asked Rooney, the Good Cop.

  “Oh, he had a notion to do a sort of Studs Terkel kind of thing about the men who wind up here on the streets.”

  Bauman shook his head. “Did he know how close he was to winding up on the street himself?”

  Whelan stiffened. “Meaning what? You talk like this to his wife?”

  “No, we didn’t, sir.” Rooney shot a glance at Bauman. “Of course not.”

  “No, we don’t talk that way to somebody’s widow,” Bauman said. His cheeks were mottled red, and Whelan guessed most of it was his natural coloring. “I just made a comment. We did some checking and the guy was…he was having his troubles. And he was a drinker. I could tell that by looking at him.”

  “That something you know a lot about?” He was surprised at himself and tried to calm down, but there was something in the fat red face he didn’t like.

  Bauman opened his mouth and then shut it; his attempt at self-control was visible.

  “Okay, so we caught you on a bad morning or you don’t like me or you’re feeling worse than we realized about this thing. Awright, I’ll give you that one. I was outta line. It just seemed…from what we heard, that he was kind of a…” He went fishing for vocabulary and came up empty.

  “He was a loser,” Whelan said calmly. “There’s no polite word for it that I know of. When you’re in school, they call you an ‘underachiever’ but once you’re on your own, you’re a loser. Yeah, I guess that’s what he was. Near as I can make out, he drank himself out of his job with the Tribune and his marriage and he…he had this idea that he was going to straighten it all out down here. He just had an illusion that he was going to write a book and get back on his feet. And everything would be fine. He was a mess and I didn’t know what to tell him so I was biding my time.”

  He looked out the window and shook his head at the sudden image of Shears’s face across the desk, smiling with self-delusion.

  “Good guy?” Bauman asked.

  “Yeah. He really was. He always was. You would’ve liked him. You and I aren’t getting along so well but you would’ve liked Artie.”

  Bauman shrugged. “Couldn’t have been a bad guy. His wife, she’s a real nice lady. Anybody can see that. Kids in good schools, how bad could he be? Who knows, maybe one of us is not far behind, eh?” Bauman looked at Rooney and raised his eyebrows. Rooney simply shrugged and looked uncomfortable, and Whelan caught a whiff of a man nearing retirement.

  Bauman looked at Whelan and smiled slightly. “Okay, Whelan. I’m sorry if you thought I was popping off about your friend. This is what we got and we want to know what you got, if anything. Art Shears had been seen for several days interviewing different people on the streets with a small, you know, tape recorder. On the night of his death, he was seen coming out of the liquor department of the Walgreen’s on Wilson and Broadway with a bottle. About seven-thirty or eight, this was. Sometime later that night, probably between nine and ten, according to the medical examiner, he was killed in what was probably a robbery attempt. Maybe for drug money.”

  “A user? Why a user?”

  Bauman shrugged and Rooney leaned forward. “He was killed by several blows to the head, sir. Wouldn’t have taken that much to knock him out. Your average drug user gets a little carried away sometimes. Some of ’em are a little crazy.”

  Whelan thought for a moment. “Why would he have been in an alley?”

  Bauman shrugged again, smiling slightly. “Well, you know…to have a couple pops. He bought a bottle, right?”

  Whelan shook his head. “Uh-uh, not Artie. Not in an alley. If he was in an alley, any alley, there was another reason. He wouldn’t he drinking in an alley.”

  “How do you know that?” Bauman asked irritably.

  “The reason he came to see me was to get company on his little expeditions up here. He was nervous about it. He didn’t mind it so much in the daytime but he was getting a little spooked at night. He was afraid of the neighborhood and some of the people he talked to made his skin crawl. A guy like Art wasn’t about to go lurking around in alleys.”

  “So he wanted a place to drink in peace.” Bauman forced a small smile.

  “Fine, he would’ve gone into a doorway. Or he would’ve gone into the john in some greasy spoon and had a taste. Or he would’ve poured it into his Seven-Up and walked around with it. He used to do that once in a while. But he wouldn’t go into an alley in Uptown at night. Not just to drink.”

  Bauman leaned back and looked at Whelan. Rooney sighed.

  “His blood alcohol was pretty high, sir,” Rooney said. “We got the results yesterday. He drank his bottle, sir.”

  Whelan looked around his office and a thought struck him.

  “You find the bottle?”

  Bauman sat up and opened his mouth, then looked at Rooney, and back at Whelan.

  “Well, shit, I suppose so. Yeah, I guess we did. We found all the bottles, Whelan.” His cheeks seemed to be a little redder.

  “The alley is full of bottles, sir,” Rooney offered.

  “I know. I was there.”

  “We know,” Bauman said, and smiled happily.

  Whelan looked at him and nodded. “Gray Caprice, lot of crap in the backseat.”

  Bauman nodded curtly and Whelan felt his own face reddening slightly. “Not bad. But if you didn’t find a bourbon bottle in that alley, then he didn’t go there to drink. He was there for some other reason.”

  “What?” Bauman blinked and tugged at his collar.

  “Some guys go down hard, they fight it. All the time I knew Artie, he never drank anything but bourbon. Turned his nose up at anything else. If you told him he was an alcoholic, he would’ve laughed at you because he drank nothing but good whiskey and he had this idea that a guy who can be fussy can’t have much of a problem. I hadn’t seen him much lately but I can’t believe he’d change about that. So if you found a half pint of Beam or Early Times, or maybe Old Forester if he had a couple bucks on him, then maybe I’m wrong. But I was in that alley and all I saw was wine and vodka. If he went in there, he did it for some other reason.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody talked him into it. Or…or he was looking for somebody, I don’t know. But you guys don’t either.”

  Bauman wet his lips. “Okay, smart fella. We don’t know. But we’re trying to find out.”

  “I could give you a hand.”

  “No, thanks,” Bauman said, getting to his feet. “Just wanted to see if you had anything interesting to say, Whelan.” The room seemed to be filled now with his scent of sweat and deodorant and tobacco.

  “I was a police officer.”

  “Yeah, we know,” Bauman said, his back to Whelan.

  “That’s why we’ll expect your complete cooperation, sir.” Rooney bit his lip and stared at the wall for a moment, then turned back to Whelan. “So you never actually went out on the street with Mr. Shears? To work on his, uh, book?”

  “No. He asked me if I would and we agreed to talk about it later. But I never—It never happened.”

  “Know if
he was talking to any users? Anything like that?” Bauman raised his eyebrows.

  “No. I don’t think so. I’m not sure he would’ve known.”

  Bauman opened the door.

  “Have a nice day,” Whelan said, deadpan.

  Bauman paused and gave him a long, hostile look and Rooney shook his head at Whelan. They left.

  Four

  By eleven o’clock he’d sweated through his shirt. The digital thermometer on the Community Bank building told him it was 101; the one on the college said it was 99. The truth was somewhere in between and it didn’t make much difference. There was the faintest pawing of breeze in the air, and maybe later the lake would send a wind, but at the moment it wasn’t doing a thing. The previous night’s rain had left no trace of itself but a few puddles that already looked stagnant, as though things might be growing there.

  He pounded pavement, buttonholed strangers, had cigarettes with winos and made small talk with a couple of neatly dressed black kids from the college, and it all got him nowhere. Several of the street types told him they remembered Art, and he actually believed one, but the man could tell him nothing more than that he’d seen a man with a tape recorder.

  The young man in front of the Walgreen’s could have been the prototype for all the Jehovah’s Witnesses Whelan had ever seen. He was very young, wondrously clean-cut, earnest, impervious to scorn, criticism or the mocking glances of passersby, and persistent. He wasn’t a Witness, though, for he wore no tie and his neatly pressed blue shirt was long-sleeved and he called attention to himself by wearing the sleeves buttoned, western style. Whelan felt hot just looking at him.

  He stopped and watched the dark-haired young man speaking to a trio of drunks collected around a fire hydrant. His impassioned gestures were impressive, as he waved his arms, beat his breast and covered his eyes with his hands. The three drunks looked at each other and laughed. Whelan could see that the young preacher was growing impatient. Finally, just as Whelan neared the group, the young man leaned over and heatedly said something to one of the men, who leaped up and took a roundhouse swing at him. The punch caught nothing but air and the young man jumped back, visibly stunned by this reception to his fresh-air ministry. The three drunks moved off and the young man watched them. Then he noticed Whelan looking at him.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi. Rough morning, huh?”

  “I guess so.”

  “What was it you said to him?”

  “I just…I wasn’t thinking. I just forgot myself. I asked him what his mother would think about the way he’s turned out.”

  Whelan laughed and looked away to minimize the young man’s embarrassment.

  “Did it ever occur to you that his mother might be dead and that maybe she didn’t have such a good life herself? These guys don’t want to hear about their mothers, pal. Is this your, ah, first…mission?”

  The young man put his hands on his hips, struggled for nonchalance, and nodded. “Yes, sir, it is. I suppose I’ve got some things to learn, but—”

  “We all do. Where are you…do you have a church up here?”

  “I’m working under the direction of the Reverend Charles Roberts.” He beamed, as though he’d just mentioned Billy Graham. “Do you know Reverend Roberts?”

  “No, not personally. He’s headquartered just up the street, right?” The young man nodded. “But I don’t know a lot of the local clergymen personally, Reverend.”

  The young man gave him a sheepish look. “Oh, I’m not Reverend yet. I’m still studying and…it’s just plain Don. Don Ewald.”

  Whelan held out his hand. “Paul Whelan. So you’re a seminarian?”

  Don nodded eagerly. “Exactly. Only here, on the streets, I’m called an ‘intern.’ The Way Mission has four summer interns, from all parts of the country.”

  “Where are you from, Don?”

  “Bakersfield, California.”

  Whelan smiled. “Got anything like this in Bakersfield?”

  Ewald looked up and down the street and shook his head slowly. “No, and I couldn’t have imagined this many poor people, this many alcoholics, this many runaways, homeless people…you know, Bakersfield isn’t heaven but the scope of this is incredible to me. The Lord has his work cut out here.”

  “He does that.”

  “Well, I should probably get back to my ministry.” He smiled. “Perhaps you could stop by the Way some time for coffee.”

  “I might do that. You folks might be able to help me with something.”

  “Help you, Mr. Whelan?”

  “I’m trying to get some information. A friend of mine was killed up here a couple of nights ago, and I’m investigating his death. I’m trying to find anyone who may have talked to him before he died.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. “You’re a police officer?”

  “Nope. Private investigator.”

  “Really?” A childlike grin spread across Don Ewald’s face. He looked like an altar boy. “I’ve never met a private investigator.”

  “Well, you have now. Not so impressive, is it?”

  “Well, sure it is! Wait’ll Tom hears about this. Aw, he’ll be so jealous. He reads detective novels all the time. Oh…” His face grew serious. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss, Mr. Whelan. If there’s anything—”

  “Thanks. Who’s Tom? Friend of yours?”

  “My roommate. We usually work together but he’s got a cold.” He tried to look somber but lost control again. “Are you actually looking for his killer?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I am. So are the police, but they don’t have the manpower to put people on something like this full time. They think it was just a robbery that got out of hand. I thought I’d poke around in it awhile. My friend’s name was Art Shears. He was medium height, thin, and he was starting to lose his hair. He would probably have been wearing a light blue summer sportcoat and he was using a small tape recorder and interviewing some of the derelicts around here. Remember seeing anything like that?”

  “No. Do you know of any of the people he was interviewing?”

  “Not really. He didn’t mention any names, so I’m kind of stuck there.”

  Don Ewald thought for a moment. “Well, I didn’t see him but I can ask the other interns. One of them might have seen him. You know, between the four of us, we cover quite a bit of ground every day.” He sounded hopeful.

  “I’m sure you do. Well, maybe I’ll stop by sometime.”

  “Come by during the week and I’ll ask everybody.”

  “I’d appreciate it. And I’ll look forward to that cup of coffee.”

  “Great.” Don held out his hand and they shook. “It was real nice to meet you, sir.”

  “My pleasure,” Whelan said.

  He had lunch at the A&W, where Rashid and Gus were arguing when he came in. Several customers walked out without ordering. The subject of debate seemed to be the approximate age of the Italian beef. Gus held that it was fresh, Rashid seemed to think it posed public dangers. As Whelan took a seat at the end of the counter, Rashid held the plastic container to his nose.

  “This one is old.” He sniffed, wrinkled his nose and said “Peuu…this guy is bad. Flies won’t eat this guy.”

  “Goddamn!” a young black man at the counter said, and walked out, shaking his head.

  “You’re losing business, guys,” Whelan said. “I’ll save the franchise. Give me a Shalimar kabob and onion rings and a Coke. Quick, let people see me eating.”

  “No chicken biryani?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Serve the detective his food, Rashid.”

  “You are a pig,” Rashid said to his cousin, and his eyes implored Whelan to agree with him. Whelan busied himself with a cigarette and tried not to laugh.

  “You are a pig, Gus,” Rashid told his cousin’s departing form. “You leave old shit food all everywhere, make fucking people sick.” He put his hands on his hips, hung his head and became the portrait of aggrieved authority. After a moment, he l
ooked at Whelan, snapped his fingers and grinned.

  “Shalimar kabob for the detective! Oh, you gonna like this one.”

  “I always do. Just don’t ever tell me what’s in it.”

  “It is only good Persian food.”

  “Good Persian food, hah!” Gus called out, shouldering open the kitchen door. He plopped a large white box on the counter directly in front of a thin man in glasses. The man’s A&W basket jumped and a few fries escaped. He looked at Gus and shook his head as he retrieved his potatoes.

  “You don’t know nothing about Persian food.”

  “I’m the cook!”

  “Bah. You call this cooking?”

  “These are the recipes of my mother.” He held Gus’s gaze and dared him to insult his mother.

  “Your mother is no cook. She is no chef, for sure.”

  Rashid’s face darkened. “Your mother, she—”

  Gus straightened slightly and looked over at the back counter, where a cleaver was resting on the stainless-steel surface.

  Gus’s large stomach heaved with his emotion. “Say something about my mother.”

  “Your mother…is Assyrian.” Rashid’s face burst into a delighted grin, the grin of victory, a conqueror’s grin. He turned to Whelan and pointed to Gus.

  “He is only half Persian. The other half is Assyrian.”

  Whelan looked at Gus, who was clearly imagining the sudden death of his cousin.

  “I thought your people killed all the Assyrians,” he said.

  Rashid shook his head. “No. We got a million Assyrians. We got Kurds, too.” He shrugged apologetically, as though Kurds and Assyrians were a blot on the good name of Iran.

  “You gonna kill each other or serve me some food?”

  Rashid slapped himself across the head. “Oh, shit. Yes, yes, yes. He’s coming right up!” He glanced at Gus, who was still staring malevolently at him. “Ah, is okay. Assyrians are okay. They just don’t know about Persian food.”

  Gus grunted and resumed his duties.

  “You know,” Whelan said. “I keep hearing that the national pastime in Iran is chess or backgammon. It’s not, though, is it?”